Bullets Are Only Symbolic, Tyler Durden is Forever
by Counterfeit God
Summary: .One Shot. Tyler sabotages Jack's "recovery" at a mental hospital he was sent to for what doctors believe was attempted suicide. Post film/book.


A/N: I apologize if any of my psychology information is wrong; generally I'm fairly good with the subject, but I did no research for this fic, I just used what I remembered off the top of my head. So, errors are a possibility. And yes, there really are videos of people with Dissociative Identity Disorder changing over. It's fascinating to watch if you ever have the time, I'm sure you could find videos on the internet somewhere, probably YouTube.

Also, it should be noted that I am not Chuck Palahniuk. I've never been God, unfortunately. My style is NOTHING like his, I know this. Do review if you have the time... Anonymous reviewing is enabled.

* * *

Tyler Durden doesn't exist.

Every single day I get this same line repeated to me, a mantra that supposedly might cure my insanity. That must be what they are thinking.

Dissociative Identity Disorder is not a common disorder, in fact, some psychologists believe that it has never really existed. This might be part of the reason why I'm treated by some of my doctors as more of a liar than an actual patient.

I have to say, it's not hard for me to understand their disbelief. What, with people claiming to have personalities of chickens and other barnyard animals, along with maggot-feeding aunt Sally, who wouldn't be a bit suspicious? Some people have asserted that they have over 50 separate personalities.

If you ever have the time, watch a few of the old videos on the subject. Some pencil-skirted blonde starts out as a demure and eloquent housewife at the beginning of the questioning, then about halfway through she's ripping off her blouse and strutting on top of the table waving her ass in your face.

I understand why they might not believe me.

Tyler Durden, anarchist. He's not well liked here. They ask me to "show" them Tyler. I've tried to explain again and again that he's gone, dead.

This isn't how it is supposed to happen. There was a mistake...

When trying to "cure" Dissociative Identity Disorder, there are a few ways the situation can go. Generally the original personality has to be left behind, as it is incapable of handling life's difficulties and was forced to create other personalities in the first place. The best way to go is to select the strongest most capable personality to take over, namely Tyler. That obviously didn't happen.

My doctors fear a relapse into my previous "delusions" as they've termed them. Like I said, they don't believe me. They are under the impression that people blast holes through their faces with handguns because they are suicidal, not because they are trying to rid themselves of overbearing personalities trying to mentally free them from inconsequential societal conceptions.

They have yet to even give me some sort of diagnosis besides major depression (for shooting myself in the face, that is). That doesn't stop them from shoving every pill known to man down my throat though. Apparently they haven't heard about the obliterated banks and dead man buried in my backyard. I still have yet to figure out how I've gotten away with that. One of the mysteries of Tyler Durden.

I'm stuck in these white, bleach smelling halls until they deem me "stable" enough to leave. I'm stable. I'm perfectly fine.

Dr. Malik is staring at me from across his pristine desk, his small, frameless lenses glaring back at me from the hideous overhead lighting that also makes his baby-skinned forehead gleam.

"Mmhm," he mutters, inclining his head to my answer about my current feelings. The move is trademark Doctor Phil. I should know; he's all they seem to play on late night television. His reruns, and infomercials for colon cleansing. Dr. Malik must stay up at night masturbating to his idol, that would explain the imitations I am often witness to.

"Look, doctor, I'm ready to leave. I've done all you asked. I am reformed."

"This is what you keep saying to me, Jack, yet your actions speak against you. Calling psychology a biased science and form of mass psychosis does not make me feel confident in your mental stability."

My eyelid twitches unconsciously. I feel my palms sweat. Had I been talking in my sleep?

"Your outbursts prove that you still need more time here. I feel, as do many of the others, that you are fighting this process. You know that the only way you will improve is if you are in this a hundred percent, mind, body, and soul."

Outbursts? I swallow the knot forming in my throat. That sick feeling like the one you get after standing around something dead for too long, passes coldly over my face and chills my skin. This can't be good.

"I'm going to recommend an increase in your medication."

I bite back that retort that climbed up into my mouth and just grimace instead. "Right."

"Now, you still have a long road ahead of you." He straightens some of the papers in his hand in his obsessive compulsive way, repeatedly tapping them on the desk until all the tops of the paper are even and the sides do not overlap each other.

"You need to keep going to group, keep talking to me and the others. You have to admit that Tyler isn't real, and you have to _mean_ it. You can only improve if you _accept_ that there is a problem that needs to be fixed. The first step is acknowledgment."

"_If by acknowledgment you mean agreeing with your stupidity and accepting the fact that you are either deaf to everything I've said the past MONTH, or just excessively dumb, then yes. Of course I'll agree." _

"Yes, of course doctor," I say.

I am Jack's Star Pupil, sycophant extraordinaire.

The frightening thing was, I couldn't remember verbally bashing psychology, at least not aloud. Too much medication? They sure were pumping me full of it these days. Or worse...

Tyler Durden. That name echos around my head, drowning out the psychiatrists' chant of "doesn't exist".

I leave the confines of the office, and walk down the hall toward the cafeteria.

Changeovers in Dissociative Identity Disorder are usually brought about with some sort of physical change, generally in posture. Some people blink and it's done. For me it's always been a bit more drastic.

This is why I've dropped down on the floor of the food court and started rolling around like I'm having an epileptic fit. The floor is hard and unforgiving, but luckily I cease my convulsing after a few seconds. In that stark moment of clarity my eyes track along the boring white ceiling, and I realize what's happening for once. My eyes squinch shut.

Tyler.

The sterile environment greets my eyeballs painfully as they roll back into my head and my eyelids wrench open, while the stench of antiseptic floor cleaners rams itself up my nostrils and into my skull, noxious, intoxicating. My head reels, my vision spins...then...nothing.

I black out.

* * *

Tyler blinks. Once. Twice. Two nurses are bent over and grabbing his arms, pulling him to his feet. His head is hammering in protest to the blood now regulating itself throughout him, rather than pounding only into his brain as it had been while he was on the floor. His eyes focus, shaking off the blurriness that had plagued them only seconds before.

He is out. Alive once again. His hand unconsciously flexes into a tight, unrelenting fist. He takes in a few studied, even breaths, confirming that he is in _his_ body. This is no dream, no fantasy created in the darkness of the place Jack had forced him to retreat to.

Guns and bullets are only symbolic in his case.

_I'm back._

"Took a tumble there, are you alright?" the male nurse inquires, watching Tyler's face intently.

He smiles broadly with Jack's mouth, loving the feeling of absolute and utter control after so long with nothing but abstractness.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Perfectly fine."


End file.
